As Darkness Takes the Day
by WiestkeDeWinter
Summary: After the fall of Voldemort, the French Ministry has grown increasingly corrupt and tainted magic is on the rise. Enjolras leads his students in a crusade to bring justice to the realm. Meanwhile, the students at Beauxbatons do student things like fall in love and go to classes.


Beauxbatons Les Mis AU

I have decided to write fanfiction here. I have not done this before, so I hope it's the right format :)) The AU is Beauxbatons Academy of the Wizarding Arts in France, in the post-Voldemort era. This post will explain the layout of the school, introduce characters, etc. I may make minor changes as I write; however, this should be a good reference should anyone decide to read it. Without further ado:  
Beauxbatons is located in France, location obviously unplottable but likely in the west. The majority of students are from France, but the school also feeds from Spain, Portugal, Ireland, Switzerland, Belgium, the Francophone countries of Africa, and occasionally Quebec and Scandinavia. It is a large, open building, with rounded arches, marble stone, very orderly. There is a large garden around, a field for sports, a river with a pool sectioned off, and a magnificent courtyard. Beauxbatons starts at thirteen and continues through university-level courses (although many students choose to enter the workforce after year five). The lower stories are for high school students and the higher stories for university students (although some classrooms overlap). Girls and boys are divided into different houses (there are two boy towers and two girl towers) and each gender into two (creating four houses, one for each tower). The Houses are referred to as North, South, East, and West, but it is understood that North (male) and South (female) towers draw from more respected families and East (male) and West (female) draw from Muggle-borns and lower classes. The students will be introduced as the story progresses, but here's a list of the teachers and their subjects:  
Headmistress: Madame Maxime (a former West Tower student)  
Spellwork Professor: Professor Gillenormand (a proud North-Towerer)  
Transfigurations Professor (Note: at Beauxbatons this is a purely female subject): Madame Magloire (West Tower)  
Potions (a male subject at Beauxbatons): Professor Claquesous  
Quidditch (taken quite seriously here): Professor Fauchelevent  
Defense Against the Dark Arts: Professor Javert  
Herbology: Professor Mabeuf  
Divination: Professor Laoshi (breaking the pattern here I know)  
Medicine: Sister Simplice  
Music: Mother Innocente

**Chapter One. The Fledgling.**

"Pontmercy Pontmercy!" The crowd of boys, dressed in the navy blue North Tower robes, crowded around him, hopefully throwing out rhymes. "Too grand for us now, eh? Had a spat with your grandpappy, off to sleep with pigs and beggars?"  
Marius flushed and kept himself from retorting. He trained his eyes on the floor below and kept walking.  
"Here's a boy who'd rather tick off old Gillyweed than preserve the chain of friendship! Here's a fine specimen for you!" cried a roguish boy called Fleudfrance, slowly pulling his wand from his robes. "Now you won't walk away from a duel, will you?"  
Marius shook his head angrily. "You won't tease me into going back," he said, "And you won't jinx me either. I've made my choice and it has nothing to do with getting _even _with Professor Gillenormand, and you needn't waste time being offended."  
"You musn't talk so _lofty _down in West Tower. Why, they'll jinx your willy into a knot."  
""If there's enough of it there!"  
Marius blushed deeply. "I've had about enough of you!"  
They repeated his sentence in high, lofty voices.  
"Is that why you're leaving us, Pontmercy?" inquired Fleudfrance with feigned politeness. "Can't stand our little jokes?"  
"Can't stand your big heads and your bloated egos!" cried Marius passionately.  
DeKoroloff, a pale, wiry young man famed for his spellwork, emerged from the crowd. "I'll show you a big head," he said softly, flicking his wand. Marius felt a peculiar sensation, as though the top of his head was being lifted into a vacuum. He placed his hands on his head and felt it expanding. With dismay, he attempted to keep walking.  
"Not so fast," said DeKoroloff, and Marius felt a searing sensation on his back. The crowd behind him laughed. Marius felt that this only boded ill and attempted to continue his journey through the halls, but suddenly felt himself raised in the air. He looked back. DeKoroloff shrugged. "Thought you deserved a bit of a pedestal. But since you take your lot with the swine … " Marius was aware of a horrid smell. He looked down, and found that his clothes were covered in manure.  
"Please," he said, "I was only trying to find my dormy."  
They laughed, but this laughter was cut short by the sound of brisk footsteps. Marius looked down and saw the bald black head and the grey robes of a somewhat familiar West Tower man.  
"What's going on here?" His voice was in equal measures amused and authoritative.  
"Oh, we've got one of your lot up there," said Fleudfrance.  
"Traitor," added a student.  
"Excellent," said the West-Towerer. "He'll be coming with me then … or I'll call Javert."  
"He's served his punishment," considered Fleudfrance. "You'll pay for this, believe me, but take him."  
He nodded to the crowd and they left. The black man looked up at Marius and said wryly, "I'd shake your hand, but it's covered in manure. At any rate, welcome to West Tower. My name's Bossuet, and you're Marius Pontmercy."

**Chapter Two. West Tower.**

Bossuet flicked his wand and Marius floated to the ground. "I have to admit I'm worried about trying to reverse the other curses," he said, "I bought my wand from a real sketchy maker, and it's always a bit of a mystery what will happen."  
"Maybe I should go see Sister Simplice?" said Marius.  
"Oh, no, don't bother. Combeferre will be thrilled to fix it for you. But you've moved to West Tower now?"  
"That's right," said Marius, "On account of my disgust for North Tower politics and such. Thank you, incidentally, for saving me."  
Bossuet grinned. "It's nothing. They don't mess with West Tower folk, not if they can help it. I'll get curses in the mail but it's all good fun. Can you walk faster? Your head is getting larger every minute."  
Marius increased his pace, looking back to see the trail of filth he was leaving behind him.  
"Don't worry about it," said Bossuet, "We're almost there. See, here's the statue … just touch your wand and you'll be in. Courfeyrac!"  
This odd exclamation was followed by a sort of fireworks display. Marius was not too surprised to see that the sparks arranged themselves in the form of the word "L'aigle." From behind the shower emerged a grey-robed figure, beaming with excitement, his nose smudged with ash. Marius knew this boy to be a couple of years ahead of him, a university student. He had a pale, animated face and red-gold hair done in imitation of Clark Gable.  
"Bossuet," he said sternly, "What sort of pet have you brought back from vacation?"  
"A Pontmercy," said Bossuet with an intellectual frown, "An odd creature found deep in the fiery marshlands of Algeria."  
Courfeyrac gave a thoughtful nod. "Combeferre will definitely want to have a look at it. Scientific research … welcome to West Tower! Enjolras has arrived but he's off trying to find his bags … Jehan's in his room simply moping about something … Joly sent an owl saying he'll be a couple days late … so it's just us here!"  
"Where's Combeferre?" asked Marius.  
Courfeyrac seemed surprised that he had spoken. "Arriving, arriving, he'll be here soon. But have you eaten? Not you, Pontmercy, you'll have to wait … but never mind. Here, Feuilly sent some chocolates from Poland … he's still in Paris … eat them. Not you, Pontmercy, Lesgles."  
Marius was quite disoriented and sat down to prevent his head from spinning too wildly. Courfeyrac laughed excitedly. "That's Joly's usual spot, there, what d'you reckon he'd say if he say you there? Wait, I'll send a picture. Smile!"  
Marius hardly knew what to do and attempted weakly to smile. Courfeyrac took a camera from the ledge and pointed it at him.  
He set it down with a grin. "Well, ground rules. You must never stick 'de's in front of my name; it's quite offensive. You won't call us nicknames until we ask you to. You don't mess with any of the girls unless you know they aren't taken. Joly's studying medicine so you must always tell him about any maladies you encounter or hear of. He loves to collect information. Don't invite yourself to our parties. We'll invite you until you start making an arse out of yourself. Which I can't imagine will be too long …" Courfeyrac regarded Marius disdainfully. The moment passed into an awkward silence, broken by the opening of the great doorway. Courfeyrac sprung to his feet and created fireworks with his wand again. This time they spelled out "Enjolras". A slender young man, quite bent over under a massive collection of luggage, entered the room, greeted the three unceremoniously, and trudged on beyond.  
[It'll be super boring if we meet every single character, but Combeferre comes along, helps Marius, eventually they all settle into their classes]

**Chapter Three. A Shadow.**

Notes: Strong PG-13 rating.  
Three days after the start of summer term, things were settling back into place. The food, though still excellent, ceased to be remarkable. The ne'er-do-wells stopped trying to do well, the slackers started to fall behind in lessons, the perpetually drunk started to overindulge. Chief among the latter group was Grantaire, declared ugly, lazy, unmotivated, cynical, useless everywhere, but still universally well-liked. After supper he remained one of the last in the hall. As his friends left his raucous laughter slowly died away until he was left quite alone and so serious he seemed almost sober.  
He stared discontentedly at the near-empty carafe of wine, and it seemed to take him an enormous amount of effort to stand, cupping his hand over the top of the carafe for support. He was surprised by a firm hand on his shoulder and turned around.  
The Quidditch instructor, Professor Fauchelevent, looked at him with sad, sparkling eyes. "You'll try out for the West Tower team this year, won't you? You've been improving considerably."  
Grantaire felt curiously close to tears, and brushed off Fauchelevent's hand. "Don't pity me," he said brusquely, and took care to keep his steps steady as he exited the dining hall from a side door. He could feel Fauchelevent's eyes following him out and slammed the door with unnecessary force.  
The sound seemed caused a disturbance down the hallway, where a thin figure scuttered from one pillar to another. Grantaire managed to focus on it and found it to be the shape of a girl, albeit a very small and scraggly one, scarcely more than a shadow. She seemed frightened yet approached him slowly.  
"Sir," she said, "Sir, you seem drunk."  
"Don't be rude!" cried Grantaire. "I'm four years your senior."  
"Not at all," she said, coming close enough that he could clearly see her undersized, earnest face. "I recognize you now. You're Grantaire. I'm Azelma, not that the name is anything to you, but I'm only two years behind you."  
"Very interesting," said Grantaire. The girl grabbed his robes.  
"You must help me," she said. "There's something I need you for."  
Grantaire looked at her suspiciously. "Let's hear it," he said.  
Azelma's face stretched into something like a smile, though the expression was devoid of joy. "Just follow me," she said.  
Grantaire could think of no reasonable objections, so he followed the strange little girl down a mess of small hallways until they came outside. The air was warm and sweet; it made Grantaire's head feel heavy. Azelma took his hand and led him down a little courtyard up to a statue of Venus and Mars.  
"Alohamora," she whispered, and a door at the pedestal opened up. She scurried in, and Grantaire followed her cautiously. A little den, tall enough for Azelma to stand in but too low for Grantaire, was revealed. "This is my little hideout," said Azelma, lighting a little fire in the corner with her wand. "It's very nice of me to bring you here."  
Grantaire sat. Azelma slowly brought her hands to her chest and unbuttoned her robe until it slid off her frail shoulders. Grantaire stared at her. "What are you doing?"  
"You wouldn't mind, would you?" she said pensively. "I mean to say, it's not necessary, but … why, you're hard as anything, Grantaire!"  
She gave an indulgent smile and bent down. "You don't mind, do you?" she whispered in his ear, running her little hands down his back, pulling the robes away. "You won't blame me?"  
Grantaire shook his head mustily, wondering if this was a dream. She stroked the inside of his thighs with the back of her hand and leaned in to kiss him.  
It felt to Grantaire that she was feeding off him in that kiss, and he pushed her away. "It's not any good," he said, "I'm a terrible lover."  
Azelma giggled. "You'll be Casanova when I'm done with you."  
He looked into her eyes, and they seemed terribly frightened to him. They made him feel like a rapist, though he was quite sure that Azelma had initiated this encounter. "I don't understand."  
"Later," she said, leaning in to kiss him.  
"I always come too early," he muttered.  
"Not this time," she said.  
[And so they continue ladidadida until a while later they sit side by side, looking at the fire.]  
Azelma pulled her robe around herself. "I hope you won't think badly of me," she said. "I can explain but perhaps you don't want to hear."  
"I suppose it wasn't my overpowering good looks that drew you towards me," said Grantaire with a touch of bitterness.  
"Oh, no," said Azelma with a laugh. "No … I have a curse."  
She tipped her head to the side and smiled sadly. "I was really a good girl, you know, really a good girl, a perfect little Catholic. I was beautiful back in the days, too. My family has an inn and one day a man came and he wanted me. I said, no, and he put a curse on me. Two … endless years ago. He gave me an endless _lust_ … that never ends. Even now I can feel it pulsing back." She turned her deep eyes to Grantaire. "He made me into a monster. I can barely sleep, can barely eat. It keeps me from thinking in my classes. I barely remember who I am. It burns me out and still keeps burning. It's … it's the worst."  
The girl began to cry, laying her head on Grantaire's shoulder. "I don't usually tell them," she said quietly. "You'll keep it secret, won't you? It's awfully embarrassing? You'll help me, if you can?"  
Grantaire nodded, and awkwardly stroked her ratty hair. She turned her face up to him and smiled shyly. "We should go back to the school," she said.

**Beauxbatons/Les Mis: Chapter Four. **

[Summary up until now: Marius transferred from the prestigious North Tower to the more proletarian West Tower. Grantaire has found himself in a complicated relationship with Azelma Thenardier, who has been put under a curse of a great, unceasing lust.]  
The Beauxbatons library was a great vault carved out of white stone, divided into thirty piers lined with books. Wooden ladders wound their way up through each new level. Marble tables, shaped rather like owl's wings, spiraled slowly through the air as students read, constantly leading them towards the section of the library that best reflected their main stream of thought.  
Towards the back of the library, firmly perched on a rung of the wooden ladder, sat a West Tower university student. Only his mess of sandy brown hair and the top rim of his glasses were visible. The book he was holding was a deep, faded red and entitled "Twenty-One Theories on the Magical Rift and the Squib Phenomenon". After some time he set down the book, marking it carefully, and climbed up to the pier above him. He picked up a brown leather saddlebag, took out a scroll of parchment and a quill, sat and wrote. His hand was slow and careful, but occasionally he wrote faster and more carelessly. At the end he signed it, looked it over, folded it, and inserted it into the book, then continued to read.  
He was frowning deeply at a passage when he was surprised by a voice calling his name. "Combeferre!"  
He looked up to see Grantaire approaching him on one of the marble tables. "Hey there," he said, a bit drowsily, like one disturbed from sleep.  
"Hello," said Grantaire, "What are you doing?"  
"Reading," said Combeferre, "Writing letters to the next reader of the book. It's a little outdated. Still a really _excellent _volume, though."  
"Do you have a minute?"  
"I have an hour if you want," said Combeferre, glancing at his watch. "Something troubling you, old soul?"  
Grantaire indeed looked troubled. He ran his hand through his hair. "Well," he said, "I'm trying to research curses … especially how to counter them … but that's more your specialty, eh? I want an idea of where to begin. Don't want to waste my time."  
Combeferre watched him thoughtfully. "It would help to know your exact project. For a class?"  
"No, actually," said Grantaire. "Just a … thing, with a friend."  
Combeferre frowned. "You have to know the exact curse to find its counter. And sometimes that's not enough and the maker has to reverse it."  
Grantaire sighed. "Let's say I want to do general research. Where should I go?"  
"Well … start with curses. Try to find the exact … " he paused and looked at Grantaire sternly. "If this is a practical situation, you must be really careful. You should probably consult Joly or me, if not a real professional. If you don't know all the symptoms, you could try to counter the wrong curse and sometimes the results are even worse than what you were left with. More malicious curses are purposefully made similar to others so that the supposed cure is actually more harmful. It's probably better to talk to the original curser … if possible."  
Combeferre nodded at Grantaire, obviously expecting him to elaborate. Grantaire put his hands in his pockets and shrugged. "All right," he said, "That's all right, I'll just look around. Good to see you, Combeferre."  
Combeferre smiled distractedly, slowly opening his book. "Try the Curse Annals, section C40. Just don't be too quick to try a cure."  
Grantaire hopped over the railing onto the table. By the time he was floating away, Combeferre was already nose-deep in his book again.

**Beauxbatons/Les Mis AU. Chapter 5. Enjolras.**

Marius had soon discovered that the leader of the West Tower group was, not the charismatic Courfeyrac, or the erudite Combeferre, but a quiet young man called Enjolras. No one had told him this, and there was nothing tangible to indicate his status, but it was entirely clear. He did not lead ostensibly, but it was his looks that changed the mood of the conversation. He spoke very little but when he did the words were well spoken.  
Courfeyrac told Marius about Enjolras a few weeks into term, once they had become used to being friends. He came, apparently, from a very old wizarding family, famous for bearing only children. The young Enjolras had gotten on very badly with his family. He would have been disowned if not for his mother, who doted on him and was constantly sending owls and packages of sweets.  
Everyone admired Enjolras, but none more than Grantaire. It was strange for Marius, who had at first wondered why Grantaire was endured, thinking him very coarse and impossible, to see his character unfold every day into something very weak and entirely pleasant. Grantaire loved games; they were a beautiful mask. He loved drink; this gave him a mask to put on the world. He had a dull cynicism which was his refuge from the intricacies of thought and hope. He was not a beast. He was fond of everyone in the world. He loved Enjolras.  
Marius could never tell what the nature of this love was. To Grantaire it was a question of little, if any importance. If anyone had asked him if his love was romantic, he would have laughed heartily. "You wonder if I am like a young maiden, waiting in the courtyard and wishing he'd come kiss me. It is a decided no. We won't have that sort of thing around here. No Twelfth Night, with all the boys dressed as girls and chasing after their brothers." And then, if the wine had affected him in just the right manner, he might grow somber and add, "But perhaps it is not entirely unromantic after all."  
The truth is that his love for Enjolras was of a nature so sublime that it did not matter what it was called. Enjolras might have been his father, or his son, or his brother, and Grantaire would have felt the same. Enjolras was not a friend. He scorned Grantaire, and the latter imagined he didn't care. In truth, he wanted nothing more but Enjolras' approval, but forbade himself from doing anything that might allow him to gain it. He did not know why. It might have been pride, or obstinance, or a secret hope that Enjolras might admire him despite it all.  
It must be said that, though perhaps "not entirely unromantic", his feelings for Enjolras were not sexual. Grantaire was eternally a Chaser of Skirts. Skirts, however, were not a Chaser of Grantaire, despite his constant efforts to appear attractive and distinguished. He was a half-blood, and had been raised only by his Muggle mother, so he had a generally Muggle-born way of looking at things which did not help his standing. Nonetheless, he was well-liked by the majority of the school, and had inadvertently gained the pity of most of the professors.  
Marius was finding that his former colleagues of the North Tower were beginning to forget that he had every been one of their ranks, and it became less and less common that he was jinxed between classes. A good deal of this may have been due to Courfeyrac, who was a famously adept dueller and always at hand to support a friend.

**Beauxbatons/Les Mis AU Chapter 6. Evening Strolls.**

The common room of West Tower was typically fairly crowded in the evenings. It was a wooden room, with several crackling fires and a variety of chairs and tables (ok so it looked like the Café Musain). The far right corner was generally inhabited by the group led by Enjolras. They had established dominance over this area over a number of years, and now the first years found it unthinkable to set foot in this area.  
On a particular summer evening, Courfeyrac determined that the weather was kind enough that they could open the great window and meet on the balcony. And so they sat looking over the rose garden. Enjolras, Courfeyrac, and Feuilly were engaged in some discussion about potion ethics. Jean Prouvaire was expressing his rage about modern poetry to the patient ears of Combeferre. Grantaire was sitting on the very edge of the balcony, in lazy discussion with Joly and Bahorel, seated nearby.  
Grantaire was leaning back very far, as though testing to see how far he could lean without falling.  
"I must leave early tonight," he declared, "I have a rendez-vous with a friend of mine."  
"Who _is _this famous friend of yours?" inquired Joly.  
"A lady," said Grantaire with a reckless sweep of his hand, "A pretty little scrap of a girl. We'll introduce you someday."  
Bahorel laughed heartily. "We all know that you have a thousand pretty girls dancing about in your heads," he said. "If this one is flesh and blood we must assign you a medal."  
Grantaire coloured slightly and Joly looked at Bahorel sharply. Grantaire, however, changed the subject. "I think your Musichetta is walking down there in the garden," he said, "Can you tell?"  
Joly peered over the balcony and waved jovially. "Musichetta!" he cried, "Oi, Musichetta!"  
The girl, a tall, slender black girl with long braids in her hair, spun in a graceful movement and smiled up at him. "Joly," she said, smiling, "Wherefore art thou jolly when you might be down here with me? Come down."  
Joly looked around at his companions briskly and then waved. "Give me a minute." He smiled at his friends. "I must take my leave of you. A fair lady awaits."  
They waved goodbye and Joly ran into the common room. A few minutes later he emerged at the rose garden, with a light wool shawl in his arms. He approached Musichetta and placed it around her shoulders. "You'll catch cold, my love," he said, his quick blue eyes twinkling. They walked slowly through the maze of roses.  
"Bossuet isn't still pining after me, is he?" sighed Musichetta, pulling the shawl closer around her.  
"I don't know," said Joly, "He hasn't been cross with me, and I suppose that's a good sign."  
"I suppose," said Musichetta, "poor fellow."  
"Oh, everyone is a poor fellow who has the good fortune of meeting you," said Joly.  
"I thought we could go flying," said Musichetta.  
"It isn't safe at night," said Joly, "We wouldn't be able to see."  
"I was rather thinking," said Musichetta, "Of how other people wouldn't be able to see _us." _She tilted her head with a small smile and Joly shook his head with a laugh.  
"Let's keep our adventures earthbound for today! I hardly know what you had in mind, but I think I will prefer some tamer sport."  
She shrugged. "It was only an idea I had. Very well, let's prowl." She took his hand and started to run. They chased after each other like children playing tag, drunk on the summer night and with each other.  
By this time some of the other members had retired and Grantaire and Bossuet were at the balcony. Bossuet's eyes rested on the two figures, still discernible in the night. Grantaire's eyes flickered constantly to his watch. Finally he struck a grand pose. "I must go," he said. "A lady awaits me."  
Bossuet nodded. Grantaire left, checked his appearance in the reflection of the window, and walked down the stairs, where Azelma Thenardier stood waiting for him.  
"You're late," she complained.  
"Not very," protested Grantaire with a smile, "It's a pleasure to see you." He took her hand and kissed it. She looked away shyly.  
"Can we walk a bit?" asked Grantaire, "I want to talk with you."  
"Of course," said Azelma with only a note of resentment in her voice. They stepped outside. Grantaire kept silent for a while and then spoke, hesitating.  
"I don't think this is right," he said.  
Azelma stiffened beside him. "What is right?"  
"Our … our dealings with each other. I feel like I'm using you. You are certainly using me."  
"Using you!" repeated Azelma faintly.  
"Yes," said Grantaire, "you flatter me to get what you want."  
"Which is also what you want!" she protested.  
"But for all the wrong reasons," said Grantaire, looking at the ground. She attached her small arm to his waist.  
"Please," she said, turning him around to face her, "Please don't leave me alone." She brought her arms up to his shoulders. "Please don't let me burn out."  
She cast her great eyes down and said quietly, "You're all I have now."  
Grantaire let her walk away from him for a few steps and noticed how small she looked in the darkness. "I'm sorry," he said, "It wasn't worth mentioning."  
"You're quite right!" said Azelma, smiling, it seemed, despite herself. "Then you'll stay with me."  
"That's right," said Grantaire putting an arm around her shoulders, and together they walked into the night.

**Beauxbatons/Les Mis Chapter 7. Tired of Thinking of Chapter Names. **

Grantaire awoke sometime after midnight to find Azelma nestled against him. She looked peaceful in sleep, so different from her constant appearance of fright in real life. He sighed, feeling full of regret. He had let Azelma convince him that their relationship was all right, that they should continue, but he couldn't help feeling that he was using the girl. Had Azelma not been put under the curse, she wouldn't be here now; he wouldn't be able to feel her breathing beside him. The guilt grew terrible and he decided it was most judicious to return to Beauxbatons. He carefully moved away from her, so as not to wake her, transfigured his left sock into a scroll of parchment and his left into a quill, and left a note. "Dearest Azelma, going back to the castle. Can't have people talking:) Thank you for a lovely night. Best wishes, R." He looked at her fondly. "I'll try to help you," he whispered, "I'll find a cure for you."  
He exited Azelma's little cave behind the statue and stepped into the rather chilly night air. There was a clarity to the night that he was a bit afraid of, and so walked hurriedly towards the gleaming white castle. As he approached, he heard the sound of someone's footsteps. He took his wand from his pocket and held it in front of him. The footsteps ceased and he looked around the corner to see a tall figure just barely cloaked by shadows. "It's me, Grantaire!" hissed the figure.  
"Thanks for clearing that up, then," said Grantaire irritably.  
"L'aigle!"  
Grantaire peered closer and smiled. "What are you doing out here at this time of night?"  
"Walking," said Bossuet. "I could ask the same question to you."  
"I was seeing my girl, remember?" said Grantaire.  
Bossuet raised his eyebrows. "So you really have found yourself a lover," he said, "Congratulations. Yes, congratulations."  
Grantaire could not help but notice that Bossuet's voice rang hollow. "You all right?"  
"Of course," said Bossuet.  
They stepped into the castle, where lanterns stood at the doorway. Grantaire looked at Bossuet's face and shook his head. "You've been crying," he said before he remembered to mind his manners.  
Bossuet's face flushed; he turned his face away. "I have allergies," he mumbled. Grantaire shook his head. "Let's trade sorrows," he said. "Have a seat. Let's have a bit of wine —" he flicked his wand, "Much better," he said, pouring Bossuet a glass. They sat down on the staircase. Grantaire looked at Bossuet expectantly. The Algerian shrugged. "It's Musichetta," he said simply. Grantaire nodded.  
"She's changed her affections?"  
"No. We were never … official. We had a … a flirtation, not more than that." Bossuet smiled bitterly. "I just allowed myself to … like her more than I should have."  
The two men were suddenly quite aware of their embarrassment and started to laugh. Grantaire patted Bossuet's back vigorously [there's a normal way of phrasing that but I can't think of it].  
"Be strong, my man," he said, "She'll come around."  
"But I don't want her to come around," said Bossuet miserably. "Joly is my best friend and he cares for the girl. I … do you know I _hate _him sometimes?"  
"Not something to worry about," said Grantaire with authority. "It's quite natural. Musichetta will go where she wills and you'll find a new mistress if need be."  
"Right ho," said Bossuet, "Now you'll tell about this lady of yours? Did you abandon her out in the woods?" he asked suddenly, and sternly.  
Grantaire took a long sip of wine and shrugged. "There is no lady," he said. "Just a figment of my imagination. I made her up to impress you," he added. "And you won't tell anyone, just like I won't tell about your red eyes."  
Bossuet blushed again and stood rather quickly. "We'll see each other later. Auf Wiedersehen, my good man."  
Grantaire nodded but remained behind to drink the last of the wine.

**Beauxbatons/Les Mis Chaper 8. Defense Against the Dark Arts.**

Enjolras and Combeferre entered the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom and sat in their usual seats, three rows from the front and to the left.  
"I don't feel like I've done the assignment correctly," Enjolras was saying, with a frown, "Look, here I've said that Morgan le Fay was the first to employ dragons in warfare — just like the book said — but here I've got the dates for Chinese dragons and I don't think it corresponds."  
Combeferre's brows drew together as he glanced over Enjolras' paper. Then he smiled. "You're using two different time systems. See, Chinese wizards still record using the old calendar. Besides, it's a different topic. Just take out that paragraph."  
Enjolras tapped his wand on the paper and the words disappeared. Combeferre leaned over and added the word "Incidentally" at the beginning of the next paragraph.  
"Cheating?" said a brisk voice behind them. Combeferre cringed and turned. Professor Javert stood behind them, a deep frown creasing his features.  
"Last minute corrections, sir," said Combeferre casually.  
"It's against the rules," said Javert, "For one student to add to another student's paper. Did I not make this quite clear at the beginning of term?"  
"You did, sir," said Combeferre, steadily, "And I'm sorry."  
"Let me see your paper," said Javert.  
Combeferre and Enjolras exchanged a look. Combeferre was already resigned, but Enjolras looked terrified.  
Javert Vanished. the papers with his wand. "Detention tonight," he said, "My office. Mr Combeferre, please select a new seat." He indicated the back of the classroom. "I'm sure Miss Thénardier will be glad to share a table with you."  
Combeferre shrugged at Enjolras, who looked stricken, and sat next to Eponine Thénardier, a pretty, quiet looking girl with generally Chinese features and long, soft black hair. He smiled, "Good day, Eponine."  
"Hello," she said, seeming generally uninterested.  
"How did you like the essay?"  
"Didn't do it," she said, with a flip of her hair.  
Combeferre's face registered surprise. "You didn't do it? What happened?"  
Eponine looked around in an exaggeration expression of confusion. "Not my essay," she said.  
Combeferre chuckled. "I've a friend who doesn't do a jot of work but still get's all O's. But I have to finish all my work to feel at ease … even if it gets Vanished the moment I walk in the door." He smiled with a slightly resentful smile and looked over at Enjolras, who was stroking his quill with a far-away look in his eye that suggested to Combeferre that he was near tears. Combeferre smiled very slightly. Eponine shrugged again.  
"I don't think about notes or work that much," she said. "I have better things to think about."  
"Like what?" said Combeferre. Eponine frowned and he corrected himself. "I meant it as a question."  
Eponine declined to answer. "I've seen you with Marius Pontmercy, haven't I?" she said, by way of changing the conversation "He used to be in North Tower."  
"That's right," said Combeferre, a little surprised, "He's a friend of ours."  
Eponine smiled faintly and tipped her head to the side. "It's so odd how you say 'a friend of ours', even when it's only you talking," she said, and Combeferre wasn't sure if she was talking to him or to herself. "Some people can, I suppose."  
He was spared from responding by the commencement of class. Professor Javert collected the papers and gave a short speech about the importance of academic integrity. Then he began the lecture, a comparison on laws regarding semi-permanent jinxes in France and England.  
Combeferre took careful notes. Some fifteen minutes in Eponine touched his arm and directed his attention to her parchment. Her handwriting was very cramped and randomly arranged on the paper, so it took him a while to find the note for him. In the top right corner the two letters "EP" were written in a sort of ugly, blotchy calligraphy. There were a few notes on French law, some spells, and finally a single sentence, "When do you think the wedding between Javert and the Law will take place? Will he invite us?"  
Combeferre smiled for Eponine's benefit and scribbled back, "Nonsense. It's illegal to marry a theory in France."  
Eponine leaned over him — apparently unaware that her arm was pressed onto his chest — to write "A tragic love affair then. Poor Javert."  
At that moment, Javert paused mid-sentence. "Miss Thénardier, are we writing notes?"  
"We were," said Eponine, "Not anymore."  
Javert snatched up the paper and looked at it. His face turned dark and he looked sternly at them. "You will join Messieurs Enjolras and Combeferre for detention tonight," he said. "It's a bad day for order today, isn't it?"  
Combeferre looked up at him. He was well aware that he was one of Javert's favourite students, and he wished very much that Javert hadn't seen the note. He looked over at Eponine, who looked rather pleased with herself, and felt even more guilty. For the rest of the class, he took notes vigilantly. When class was over, he approached the desk as Enjolras waited a few metres away, waiting.  
"Professor Javert," he said, "I just wanted to mention that I didn't mean what I wrote on the note."  
Javert looked up impatiently. "It's so offensive to write notes in class that it hardly matters what they say."  
Combeferre shrugged. "Well, I'm sorry anyways. I was just trying to impress the girl … " The conversation was clearly over, so he shrugged and turned to Enjolras, wondering if that had been a lie. He was repelled rather than attracted by Eponine, by her slovenly, careless attitude. He didn't like her. But there was a little part in him that felt just the way he'd felt, as a little boy, when the pretty girl who'd lived next to him came out to play, and he'd pretend he didn't see her and shoot hoops, praying she was watching whenever he made one. He wanted to impress her, that was it, and he wanted to see more of her. He had been secretly pleased that she would be joining Enjolras and him for detention.  
As soon as they left the classroom, Enjolras burst out in anger. He had obviously been brooding over the disappearance of his paper all class. "It's just not fair," he said bitterly, "Are you sure it's in the rulebook? Is that really allowed? That's two hours of my life … stolen!"  
Combeferre smiled. "If you're going to be angry with anyone, it should be me," he said. Enjolras looked annoyed. "I'm … this is serious, Combeferre!"  
Combeferre chuckled. "Your grades are better than mine, Enjolras. You'll be fine with one missing paper."  
Enjolras protested. They headed to lunch, which was served in the courtyard during summer, meeting with Grantaire and Feuilly, who had discovered some material about revolution which he and Enjolras debated at length while Grantaire and Combeferre discussed the quality of the school food.

**Beauxbatons/Les Mis AU Chapter 9: Detention**

At seven-thirty Enjolras and Combeferre left the West Tower common room and made their way downstairs to Javert's office, a large room which could have been mistaken for a very orderly antique shop. At a large wooden desk in the back sat Professor Javert, who was grading papers. They approached slowly.  
"We're here for detention," said Combeferre.  
Javert looked up. "Right. You'll be cleaning the classroom. First, straighten the desks. Then clean the classroom thoroughly — no magic! Pay special attention to the medals behind my desk. They are getting tarnished."  
Enjolras and Combeferre nodded and entered into the classroom, closing the door behind them.  
"You do the right side of the classroom and I'll do the left," said Enjolras. Combeferre agreed and they set to work.  
"Feuilly thinks we should merge with foreign groups with similar interests," said Enjolras, "He found some Order of the Phoenix splinter group … but I don't want to. I think it could be limiting."  
"I think you're right to avoid it," said Combeferre. "Although if you're careful … here's Eponine."  
The door opened and Eponine entered. Combeferre smiled, a little annoyed with himself for the nervous feeling in his stomach.  
They greeted each other and set to their tasks. Enjolras tried to start conversation. "What do you think about jinxes?"  
"Not much," said Eponine.  
Combeferre _really _didn't like Eponine. Her apathy was grating, her entire attitude was repulsive to him.  
"You'd think something about jinxes if someone jinxed you," he said. Enjolras looked at him oddly. He thought. "It wasn't supposed to sound like a threat," he added quickly. "Just a … spirited comment."  
Eponine laughed lazily. "As long as you don't jinx me I won't hold it against you."  
Combeferre said, "Ha ha ha ha ha." He had intended to laugh but for some reason he said "Ha ha ha ha ha" instead. Enjolras, standing behind Eponine, had tilted his head almost forty-five degrees to the right, a puzzled, mutinous expression on his face. He spoke quickly and definitely, clearly trying to draw attention away from the odd behavior of his friend. "The weather is so warm!" he exclaimed.  
"Yes," said Eponine, "That's why they call it summer term."  
There was silence for a while. After about half an hour, Eponine turned to Combeferre, when they were working next to each other, and asked placidly, "Do you think I'm ugly?"  
"I'm not sure," said Combeferre, looking at her and thinking, "I mean, no. Of course not."  
"No," said Eponine, "You mean you're not sure. Which is better than being entirely ugly."  
She nodded contentedly and went back to her work. Combeferre and Enjolras exchanged glances. Footsteps were heard from the other room.  
"Monsieur Javert," they heard from a deep male voice, a bit muffled through the wall.  
"Monsieur … Fauchelevent," responded Javert's voice, with sarcasm that no amount of muffling could conceal. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"  
"Three months ago you asked me to bring documentation proving my identity," said Professor Fauchelevent, "I am here to give it to you."  
"Most people have identity wherever they go."  
"I am an exception. You'll see that everything's in order, just as it should be."  
"You know I'll find you out eventually."  
"Oh, I know," said Fauchelevent casually. "But for now we can be quite content."  
The three students looked at each other curiously. There was a long silence in which it seemed that Fauchelevent was gone. But then Javert spoke. "We haven't met in a long time."  
"Why, we spoke to each other yesterday at dinner."  
"Yes," said Javert, "We haven't spoke to each other. I meant we haven't met."  
Another long silence ensued. Then Fauchelevent's voice: "We shouldn't —"  
Eponine looked around. "What shouldn't they do?" she hissed? Enjolras, who was nearest the door, looked through the small window. He froze and turned around very slowly, then rested his chin in his hand, physically forcing back a smile. "Don't … look," he said, and then started to laugh. Combeferre and Eponine looked at each other. Enjolras walked slowly towards them, reeling. "That …" he said, "Was not something I was expecting to see today."  
"_What?_" said Eponine.  
"Don't look!" said Enjolras urgently, running his hands through his hair, "You'll regret it, I promise you!" He started to laugh again, and through the door there came, louder and louder, sounds that made it quite clear what Eponine was not to look at.  
The three students looked at each other dumbly, and dissolved into horrified laughter.  
"Who would've thought," said Combeferre in an undertone, "I mean, who would've thought."  
"Oh, this will be beautiful blackmail," said Eponine pensively, "If need be."  
They laughed again, and then returned hurriedly to their work, trying to ignore the drama taking place next door.  
They heard Fauchelevent take his leave. Some fifteen minutes later Javert entered the room, flushed and awkward. "Time's up," he said. "Are you finished? You look finished. Very good, you're finished. Good job. Do your homework. Good-night."  
The three left silently. At the top of the stairs where East and West Towers divide, Combeferre nodded. "This is between us three, right?"  
The other two nodded, and split off to their respective dormies to sleep.

**Beauxbatons/Les Mis Chapter 7. Grantaire and Azelma.**

Grantaire left Potions class around noon and chose a seat in the courtyard. He was in a bad mood that he couldn't quite account for; it had started off with a number of confusing, unpleasant dreams, where he was walking naked through Hong Kong, and only gone worse from there. He didn't really want to meet his friends, though not wanting to avoid them, and so chose a small table in the corner, where they might not notice him.  
A menu appeared in the stone table. He selected the half-bottle of Beaujolais and a quiche with a flick of his wand. Several minutes later, they appeared and he started to eat, slowly, feeling altogether too lazy to continue the meal.  
He saw Enjolras, Combeferre, Feuilly, and Courfeyrac approach a table across the courtyard and watched jealously. They hadn't even bothered to look around for him …  
He was surprised by footsteps on the other side of him. "I've been looking for you," said Azelma Thénardier with a little smile, "Hiding out under here?"  
He smiled tiredly. Azelma, rather to his surprise, slid onto the bench and sat on his lap, facing him, tucking her feet up towards his back, and leaning in to kiss him. He kissed her back and looked at her tiny face, usually so closed off and empty, opening to him like a morning glory opens for the sun. "I've missed you," she said.  
Grantaire protested in his head. She did not miss him, she had missed the sex because of the curse. Her eyes did not contain love or even like, their was only need, gratitude, happiness at finding the thing she wanted so much. "Like way you might look at a toilet if you've been wanting one for a while," he thought a little bitterly. "Missed you too," he said.  
Azelma stroked her hands down his back until they reached his buttocks. She slid them under and smiled. "I suppose you'd like to finish your lunch," she said.  
"I would," agreed Grantaire, "You should eat too. Sit over there —" he pointed at the other side of the table — "And we'll have a conversation."  
Azelma pouted a little and disentwined herself from Grantaire. "Very well if you don't find me attractive."  
"On the contrary," said Grantaire, "But we should have conversations one in a while. If we're going to be in a relationship. How was your day?"  
"Terrible," said Azelma, "And yours?"  
"The same."  
"See?" said Azelma, "We're perfect for each other!"  
Grantaire frowned. "What do you want in life?"  
Azelma shrugged. "I hardly know," she said. "I've grown so concentrated on the curse." She cast her eyes down. "I suppose I want to move on from the curse. To forget….just for some time at least."  
Grantaire nodded. "You're right. We're very similar."  
"Can we go then?" said Azelma anxiously.  
"Yes," said Grantaire, pushing his plate away. "Yes, let's go."  
They walked the their usual spot, passing the table of Grantaire's friends, who looked up at him. When they entered the area under the statue, Azelma practically leapt onto Grantaire.  
"You're usually hard by this time," she complained, taking off his robes.  
"I'm …sorry?" said Grantaire.  
"Not at all," said Azelma, "It's a challenge for me."

bothers you. Always open to conversation; I like knowing the people I follow!

**Install this theme**

**Beauxbaton/Les Mis Chapter 10: As Darkness Takes the Day**

Warning: sexual content  
Note: chapter title is quote from a song from Harry Potter  
Note 2: I've slept about 5 hours total out of around 72 hours so don't judge me to harshly…  
"Please don't leave me," said Grantaire, resting his head of dark curls on Azelma's breast.  
"Why, it was _you _who left me last time," said Azelma, stroking his back with her arm. "Quite alone."  
"But you'll leave me," said Grantaire, "because this is all not real. It's a game like everything."  
"Are you drunk?" asked Azelma.  
Grantaire laughed. "I don't think so," he said, "not today."  
He cupped her right breast in his left hand. "I hate to be left alone," he said, idly. "There's so many voices…"  
"Voices?"  
"Not real voices," he said, "I can't hear them. Just feel them … begging me to do everything I'm afraid of … leading me to the edge of a cliff …"  
Azelma scrambled to a sitting position. "We can chase them away," she said, a playful, determined look in her eye. "Voices," she said, "You will not bother this poor young man anymore. Not as long as he's with me."  
She kissed his hand and pulled her legs up and apart. He drew close to her, spreading kisses up her legs and across her buttocks, then pressed inward, pulling her closer and closer to him. He came while still seated a few centimetres away from her, the tip of his penis barely touching her skin. She gasped in surprised disappointment. "Gran_taire!"  
_He fell into her arms, weeping dry sobs. "I'm sorry, "he whispered in her ear, "I'm sorry. Please don't leave me."  
She wrapped her arms around the boys shoulder's. "I'm not going to leave you," she said, "Grantaire, I'm _not_ going to leave you alone."  
He could only weep. She tended after him that night. After some time, he fell asleep in her arms, and she watched him like a mother watches her newborn child. Every once in a while, she bent down and kissed his forehead, and whispered, "You know I'm not going to leave you alone," hoping he could hear her in his dreams.  
The morning came and they returned to the school, after a brief liason. As they walked back, Azelma slipped her hand into his. "We'll have to tell everyone now," she said, "Or else they'll gossip."  
"Tell them _what?" _he asked in surprise.  
"That we're together," said Azelma with a smile. "Do you mind?"  
He made no response and remained silent when Azelma joined him at breakfast with his friends, her arm around his shoulder. He blushed hotly under the curious glances of his friends. Azelma seemed to be alight with pride.  
"Are you a relation to Eponine Thénardier?" asked Enjolras to her, once she had introduced herself. "She's in our year."  
"Half sister," said Azelma brightly. "But officially sister," she added in a whisper, "but everyone can tell. After all," she shook her head with a laugh, "She's Chinese."  
Combeferre seemed mildly interested in the conversation, but more so in his breakfast. On their way to Herbology, Courfeyrac punched Grantaire on the arm jovially. "Got yourself a paramour, then. Good work!"  
"Something like that," mumbled Grantaire.  
"Oh, come off it," said Courfeyrac. "She's on fire with you!"  
"On fire with something. Not me."  
Courfeyrac looked disgusted with his friend's attitude and was silent the rest of the way to class. And the day progressed in such a manner, blah blah, blah, and thus ends Chapter 8.

**Beauxbatons/Les Mis Chapter 11. I think.**

As Feuilly crossed the landing of the stairs to reach the Divination tower, he caught sight of a butterfly flying across the window and stopped to look at it. When he approached, it disappeared. He looked around in slight confusion and then saw a small caterpillar crawling across the window-pane.  
He heard giggling behind him and turned to see two girls seated on the couch at the landing. They were South Tower girls, in simple, floor-length rose-coloured gowns, and their hair to their waists and tied with ribbons. One had magnificent golden hair and the other had thick, slighty wavy brown hair. The blonde was flicking her hand with a mischievous glance in her bright blue eyes.  
"Did you — do that?" asked Feuilly?  
The girl giggled and shrugged. "Do what?"  
"Make a butterfly."  
She looked to her companion and giggled. "I didn't see a butterfly," she said, "Did you, Cosette?"  
"I saw a caterpillar earlier," said Cosette, barely restraining a laugh, "Maybe it already transformed!"  
They dissolved into laughter and Feuilly approached, a little annoyed. "I know you did that," he said to the blonde, who smiled demurely. "But how?"  
She opened her left palm and showed a small stone enfolded there. "It's a charm," she said, "look."  
She blew on it and slowly it transformed into a soap bubble, which slowly grew wings and then wrinkled into a caterpillar, then, before Feuilly's eyes, turned back into a stone.  
"Where did you get that?" he asked.  
"Secret," she said. "Anyways, we haven't met, and my name's Gabrielle Delacour and this is Cosette Fauchelevent."  
"Feuilly," he said.  
Gabrielle narrowed her eyes. "Just Feuilly? There's got to be another name in there somewhere."  
"To be truthful, it's more name than I deserve," said Feuilly with a laugh.  
The girls looked at each other confusedly. He smiled awkwardly and said, "I'm … I'm a Muggle-born, and I was found at a train station in Belgium by Albus Dumbledore. Sorry, but this is one of my more interesting stories! Don't be bored. Anyways, Albus Dumbledore took me to the Belgian government. They found out I was actually Polish, but couldn't find my parents. Belgium law states that a found child _must _be named after the place he was found. Dumbledore told me — I met him once — that he protested, but I was named Etterbeek. My surname is Feuilly, because that is the name of my adoptive family, and I do not like to be called Etterbeek. That was a long story, I'm sorry, but as I said, one of my best."  
"No, it's very interesting," said Cosette. "I don't know anything about how I was born. I'm Professor Fauchelevent's daughter." She frowned. "Adopted daughter. I'm an orphan too."  
Gabrielle laughed. "There were twenty-seven fairies invited to my christening," she said, "And not one of them cursed me."  
"That _happens? _Like in Sleeping Beauty?"  
The two girls looked at him blankly.  
"It's a film," he said, "A Muggle thing."  
They nodded politely. "What is it, a fill-un?" asked Gabrielle.  
"A stories told in moving . . . paintings, in this case."  
"That sounds very lovely," said Cosette.  
"They …yes, they are," said Feuilly, a little confused.  
Gabrielle tossed her hair. "If my mother would let me, I would see one. But I wasn't even allowed to take Muggle Studies."  
"I could tell you the story," said Feuilly, eagerly, "Sleeping Beauty, I mean. You look quite a bit like the girl. Aurora, her name is."  
"Tell us," said Gabrielle, raising her eyes up through her long lashes. Feuilly wondered if this manner of looking up at a man had been one of the fairy's gifts. He sat down awkwardly next to her and told the story, having forgotten entirely about Divination. The two girls listened, entranced.  
"I think I heard something like that story in History of Magic once," said Cosette thoughtfully, "But Professor Hugo didn't tell it half as well as you."  
Feuilly found himself blushing. "Well, I've got to go to class."  
Gabrielle touched his arm — he shivered — and pointed to her small golden watch. "It's ten-thirty," she said, "Classes begin on the hour."  
He blushed a little more. "I haven't finished my homework," he lied, "Have to finish."  
"Of course," said Gabrielle, the corners of her soft mouth turning slightly down. She met his eyes. "We'll meet again?"  
Feuilly nodded emphatically.  
"Here," she said, "This time tomorrow. And tomorrow, you'll have finished your homework, and will be able to stay the whole hour."  
Feuilly's heart sank as he imagined his transcript, perfect except for a T in Divination. He nodded. "Of course."  
Then he went up to the classroom, where professor Laoshi looked up at him. "Monsieur Feuilly," said the man, a deeply wrinkled Chinese man with eyes that seemed to hold the entire world in them, "What are you doing in my classroom?"  
"Attending class, sir," he said awkwardly.  
"You aren't planning on attending again," he said.  
"No," admitted Feuilly.  
"Then don't waste my time and yours." Then he added, "Don't worry. She likes you. She won't play the games with your heart . .. too much." He winked and Feuilly blushed. "Next term, then?"  
"Next term!" said Feuilly bravely, and left the classroom, grinning from head to toe.

**Beauxbatons/Les Mis Chapter 12. Secrets.**

Combeferre and Courfeyrac walked away from Potions class. Combeferre was concerned about his grades and Courfeyrac was pleased about his new sugar quill.  
"But," said Courfeyrac, as they turned a corner, "That Eponine, eh? Do you want me to try to arrange something?"  
"What?" said Combeferre quickly, not looking over at his friend, who had fixed a steely eye on him.  
"Oh, you know what I'm talking about. Someone has a crush…"  
Combeferre shook his head. "Where did you get that idea?"  
"Let's try … two o'clock am. Last night. Sleep had touched these weary eyes at last when I was awakened by a plaintive sound from the bed across from mine … 'oh, Eponine', it whispered, 'Eponine'. I drew my own conclusions."  
"Right … "said Combeferre, trying, and failing, not to blush. "You won't tell anyone, right? Because, I'm not even sure … if I do have a crush on her. I mean …" he blushed and ran a hand through his hair, "I mean, I dislike her mainly. So don't go spreading about rumours, all right?"  
"Of course not!" cried Courfeyrac.  
"I don't trust you," smiled Combeferre.  
"You don't trust me! Why, Combeferre, I'm your friend! How could you distrust me?"  
"For starters," said Combeferre, "You're Enjolras' friend but you told our whole History of Magic class about his occasional bed-wetting last year."  
Courfeyrac raised his eyes to the ceiling. "I was trying to express how much house-elves have to deal with, it was necessary."  
"Hardly," said Combeferre. "Do you remember telling Jehan's crush about how he'll Cruciate himself?"  
"I thought that would gain him sympathy and therefore help the girl like him!" cried Courfeyrac. "And I don't remember you being very mum about it either."  
"I told _Sister Simplice_," said Combeferre. "I thought it was more her line of expertise. "Different strokes for different folks."  
"The point is, you can't be trusted to keep a secret. And I don't have anything to blackmail you with … so I'm suggesting that you tell me a secret."  
Courfeyrac frowned. "Well," he said, "Once I made love to Esmeralda d'Egypte in the Great Hall."  
"Everyone knows that already, Courfeyrac," said Combeferre, exasperated.  
"I … er, once I got drunk and tried to have sex with Joly's giant teddy bear."  
"As I said, everyone knows it. To be honest, your sexual escapades aren't exactly state secrets. Try something that's _honestly _a secret."  
"Well …" said Courfeyrac, then, "Oh, I see what you mean. Honestly a secret."  
His eyes went quiet and Combeferre watched him curiously. Then he nodded. "Sit."  
They sat a bench and Courfeyrac looked upwards at the ceiling. "Let's walk," he said, "No, I've been wanting to tell you this for a while, but it was always . .. never a good moment. Oh, let's just try. My sister … I had a sister. An older sister, you see, a while ago, and she was … she was a Death Eater."  
Courfeyrac looked at Combeferre's face to see how he would react. Combeferre looked mildly curious.  
"But she wasn't … I don't know what happened," said Courfeyrac, clearly uncomfortable. "You wouldn't think she'd become a Death Eater. She was …I really looked _up_ to her, you know? really open, really friendly, really …she liked to sing and bake and have parties. She could be a bit of bitch too, but not in a bad way. Just in a sister way. She was pretty fat and played tennis, and we played on the swings when I was little. She always made jokes about everything. I don't know what happened. She fell into the wrong crowd at Beauxbatons, I guess. She died at the Battle of Hogwarts. My mother did research. I guess she was having an affair with Rudolf Lestrange. She was killed by a man named Remus Lupin. My father completely disowned her. Never said her name again. I don't even know where she'd buried … I was eight at the time."  
Combeferre looked at him. "What was her name?" he asked softly.  
Courfeyrac smiled. "Mathilde. Just … Mathilde." He shrugged. "I can't believe she'd dead. Can't believe she was a Death Eater. I still think she'll show up wherever …at Beauxbatons, or when I come back from vacations, and she'll say …"he shrugged and waved his hand. "I don't know what she'll say." He smiled. "My little monster, have you missed me?" His voice broke and he turned his head away from Combeferre.  
"I'm very sorry," whispered Combeferre.  
"No," said Courfeyrac wretchedly, "No, everyone has things like this in their life. This is just my only . .. thing." He turned his head back with a sad smile. "So I won't tell anyone about Eponine, all right? And you won't tell anyone about Mathilde."  
Courfeyrac pronounced the name like a prayer. Combeferre laughed gently. "Deal."  
"These Potions grades, though," said Courfeyrac with a frown. "Claquesous' a bitch when he gets a red pen in his hands."  
"Oh, he does his job."  
"He's a _bitch," _countered Courfeyrac, and pressed his case until they reached the Divination room.

**Beauxbatons/Les Mis AU Chapter 13. Ships Keep Sailing.**

Warnings: some language and implied sexual content  
It was an unusual circumstance that brought more than three of the West Tower boys to the breakfast table, but on Thursday, not only Combeferre and Enjolras, but also Feuilly, Bossuet, and Grantaire had shown up. Feuilly looked suspiciously clean, as though he had been getting dressed and washing up for an hour (which indeed he had). Grantaire looked the opposite of such.  
"Well," said Enjolras, "The weather's picking up."  
Bossuet stretched. "So is the workload. Javert's in some rotten mood."  
Enjolras and Combeferre looked surreptitiously at each other. "Have you seen Eponine lately?" asked Enjolras lightly.  
"Yesterday in class," said Combeferre, privately thinking that he was going to vomit the next time he heard that name.  
"Eponine?" said a voice behind Enjolras. "I haven't seen her for a while."  
It was Azelma, who rather danced over to sit by Grantaire. She smiled sideways and slipped her hand into the right pocket of his robe, which she had previously discovered was torn. "I didn't see you last night. Waited half an hour, but you were a no-show?"  
There was distinctly ice in her voice. The other three looked away awkwardly as Grantaire squirmed.  
"Sorry," he said, "Homework."  
"You might have sent an owl," Azelma pouted.  
"Look, I'm sorry," said Grantaire. "Now would you stop … doing _that? _This isn't the time."  
His three companions became very interested in their food.  
"_Noowww _you're in the mood," said Azelma with a smile. "I'll meet you later tonight then? Same place same time except you show up?"  
Grantaire nodded swiftly. She hopped away from the bench and walked away to class.  
Combeferre turned to him. "Why did you bail on her?" he asked.  
"It … seemed like the thing to do at the time," mumbled Grantaire.  
Combeferre scrutinized him. "Do you actually like her?" he asked.  
Grantaire shrugged. "Yeah," he said, hoping to sound offhand but instead sounding very sincere. "Yeah, it's just … oh, later. I've got to get to class."  
He stood quickly and headed the same way Azelma had walked. He overtook her quickly. "What was that about?" he asked.  
Azelma looked at him. "What do you mean?"  
"That … that's not fair."  
"Giving you an erection and then not fucking you."  
"That's right."  
Azelma shot him a look of pure loathing. "Think about it," she said, "you'll find my logic's more secure than yours."  
She marched off and he caught her by the shoulder. "I was afraid," he said, in scarcely more than a whisper, "I'm sorry, Azelma. I was just really scared."  
"What, scared of the dark?" she said with deep scorn."  
"No. Scared of … just …I'm not a very good lover sometimes."  
Azelma rolled her eyes in exasperation. "I can't be_lieve _you," she said. "You know all about my curse and you're still such a bastion of insecurity that you didn't turn up for … no. Just no."  
"We're still meeting tonight?" asked Grantaire anxiously.  
She looked up at him and then smiled. "No," she said, "We're meeting _now. _Do you have time?"  
She didn't wait for a response and led him down the stairs where a larger couch was stationed. "The school didn't actually put these up so that we could have sex on them," she said, "But it's rather convenient, no? Come on. I forgive you."  
Upstairs, on the way to the Divination Tower, Feuilly was also approaching a girl on one of the landing-couches, though with a far more innocent intention. "Good day, Gabrielle," he said, "Cosette."  
The two girls giggled. "Good morning," they said, "Sit down."  
"Will you tell us about another moving painting?" asked Cosette. Feuilly acquiesced and told them the story of Cinderella. They listened, entranced. He taught them to sing the songs. Gabrielle, he learned, had a beautiful, clear soprano voice.  
"Cinderella is a very beautiful story," she said. "The poor servant marrying the aristocrat. It is so lucky for the prince that the king and queen approved the match."  
Feuilly laughed. "But they're the ones who wanted him to give balls!"  
"Yes," said Gabrielle.  
"I prefer Sleeping Beauty," said Cosette.  
"Oh, only because you think you met your little angel-boy once upon a dream," said Gabrielle laughingly. Cosette blushed deeply. Feuilly looked at Gabrielle for explanation.  
"Oh, there's some fellow here she saw … once … who she is quite in love with," said Gabrielle.  
"No," said Cosette, "No, I pass him in the halls almost every day. It's just that I knew it was him the first time I saw him."  
South Tower girls were so strange, Feuilly considered, concerned that he had accidentally entered a Disney movie.  
"Is he a North Tower fellow or a West Tower man?"  
"I don't know," said Cosette sadly.  
"You don't know his name?"  
"No," said Cosette, "but I do know his soul."  
"Well," said Feuilly, "I wish you luck!"  
"Thank you," said Cosette.  
"Would you like to walk in the garden with us?" asked Gabrielle. "We could play an alphabet game."  
Feuilly thought how much his friends would laugh at him if they saw him with these two ridiculous girls, and wanted to refuse. But at the glance of Gabrielle's bright blue eyes, he shrugged. "Very well. The Minister's Cat is an astonishing cat."  
Gabrielle corrected him, "The Archdeacon's hippogriff is an astonishing hippogriff. The Archdeacon's hippogriff is a boring hippogriff. Cosette?"  
The game continued thus until the two departed for deportment class. Feuilly returned to his common room, smiling over all the manifestations the Archdeacon's hippogriff was capable of, and set to work at his essay on Switching Spells.

**Beauxbatons/Les Mis AU. Chapter 14. The Hall of Mirrors.**

The Beauxbatons library closed at eleven at night. Madame Magloire walked through the room, flicking her wand and drawing the books back in order and making sure no students remained. In his third year, Combeferre had discovered an alcove on the top floor that she always missed, and would occasionally stay there reading so that he had the library to himself. on a particular June night, he had become interested in American herbology, sketching plants to memorise the differences.  
He usually left crept out to the main library after he heard Madame Magloire lock the great door, but today he was so engrossed in his book that he stayed in the alcove, crouched on a bench, his head bent over the book.  
About half an hour later he heard footsteps approaching and the murmur of voices. He touched his wand and slowly repositioned himself so he could just peek over the low window. He saw two figures approaching, who on further inspection proved themselves to be Professor Javert and Valjean.  
He ducked and pulled his legs up to him, unable to reach his book unobtrusively. Eventually their voices became distinct.  
"You can't go on like this," said Valjean. "There's something you need to find, and . .. and I can't find it for you."  
"You've found your God," said Javert, "a pair of candlesticks. I've found mine."  
"No," said Valjean, "Your cathedral is broken. It — listen, Javert, it frightens me to see you holding on to … nothing. Your God is flat. He doesn't make sense."  
"He makes sense with you," said Javert. Combeferre cringed and tried desperately to avoid hearing the conversation. He silently Summoned his book and tried to memorize names.  
"It's not supposed to be this way," said Valjean.  
"Let it be," said Javert.  
Why, thought Combeferre, why was this the place they had chosen for their meeting? Couldn't they keep walking?  
"Promise me," he heard Javert say, "Promise me you won't give up the chase."  
"Promise me you'll never stop chasing me."  
Combeferre covered his ears with his hands to avoid hearing this dreaful conversation. It continued, however, and ceased, and eventually the footsteps fell away. He peeked through the window, terrified of what he might see, but only saw the backs of his two professors exiting the library through a side door. He waited a full five minutes, then returned the book to its shelf and left quickly, making sure to walk a different way than Javert and Valjean. He took a circular route back home as a result and ended up in the girl's side of the castle. He rarely went by these halls and found himself slightly lost. Eventually he opened a door which revealed a sparkling room.  
He could guess that this was not the way back to West Tower, but the room aroused his curiosity and he entered. It became clear that he was in a sort of maze of mirrors. They gave strange reflections, and some of the images did not seem to be him. In one a Chinese peasant looked back, in another a Persian king. The images were fascinating and he strolled down the corridor, seeing himself change into a hundred different forms.  
He turned a corner and was surprised by a thin, tall black girl. "Combeferre!" she exclaimed, and he recognized her to be Musichetta.  
"I . . I hope this is an all right place for me," he said. "I got lost."  
"Don't worry," said Musichetta, "I'll show you around. I was just taking a little stroll. You've found the Hall of Mirrors. It's a nice place, at first at least."  
Combeferre expected Musichetta to be bright and cheerful but her attitude was entirely laconic. There was no doubt about it, she was reminiscing.  
"It was the most pleasant place when I was little," she said, "My father used to work here and he'd bring me here, and I'd look . . see, here I am as a Muggle, as a fashion model, as a bird, look! Here's the zoo… Musichetta-bear, Musichetta-dog, Musichetta-cat. Can you see?"  
"Just Combeferre-bear, Combeferre-dog, Combeferre-cat."  
"Yes," said Musichetta, that's the problem. You only see yourself . .oh, come look at this room. Just two mirrors. In this mirror I'm beautiful, talented, perfect. In the other . . oh."  
She frowned at the mirror that showed Combeferre a fat boy with thick glasses, crouched on a pile of rubbish and reading a Rita Skeeter novel.  
"I don't usually look in this mirror. But when I do … my father wanted a boy, you know. He loved me, and I only overheard him say it once. But you never forget that, you know? Never. And I'm a slut here . . too skinny, too dark, too French, too…this is meant to be a meditation exercise. You come too terms with each mirror and then you can see yourself. But people get stuck on one mirror, and it eats them away. I see a girl in here sometimes. She just sits on this bench and stares into the mirror all night. All night, over and over again. I want to say to her, turn around, Eponine, you have to look in the other mirror too-"  
"Eponine!" exclaimed Combeferre without meaning too. Musichetta nodded.  
"But I can't," she said, "the magic doesn't let me."  
"I should really go to bed" said Combeferre. "Will you guide me in the right direction?"  
"Of course," said Musichetta, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "Feel free to come back here, if you wont get lost."  
Combeferre chuckled. "Don't you get lost either. Joly would be awfully cut up."  
Musichetta left him at the entrance to West Tower. "Goodnight, Combeferre."  
"Goodnight."

**Beauxbatons/Les Mis Chapter 15. **

[Summary insofar: Marius moved from the elite North Tower to the proletariat West Tower and made friends. Azelma is under a curse which makes her eternally lustful, which has put her into a complicated relationship with Grantaire, who feels like he's using her. Combeferre is fascinated, though not necessarily admiring of, Eponine. Javert and Valjean (Fauchelevent) have been overheard behaving in ways uncharacteristic of sworn enemies. Feuilly has become enamored of the semi-aristocratic Gabrielle Delacour, her friend Cosette has revealed her love for an unknown student at the school. Oh, and Joly and Musichetta are dating and Bossuet is sad.]  
"Every winter day is unhappy in its own way, but there is only one summer day in all the world," declared Musichetta as she and Joly entered into the bright courtyard of Beauxbatons, the sun shining on her black hair.  
Joly laughed as they sat on a bench under a rose-tree. "In winter I want to die in your eyes. In summer I want to live in them."  
Musichetta smiled. "That was lovely, and it wasn't even a misquote … or was it?"  
"Just out of the brain of this jolly genius. It's true though. Your turn."  
Musichetta frowned. "Winter is intelligent, but summer is wise."  
Joly shrugged. "Not awful. Here's Bossuet and Enjolras."  
They waved and the two figures approached and sat near them.  
"How do you do," said Joly, "Musichetta and I were just trying to explain summer as wittily as possible. You may join us."  
The other two were silent in thought. Enjolras said, "I wear flowers in my coat pocket, but I'm not a gentleman. I'm green, but I'm not an elf. I am hot, but I'm not a potato. Who am I?"  
This sent Musichetta into gales of laughter. "Not like that at all!" she cried. "Joly, Joly, tell him the one you had."  
"Which one?"  
"About the eyes."  
Joly repeated it. Enjolras smiled. Bossuet had been regarding Musichetta's long locks of hair wistfully. His expression fell as Joly finished his witticism. She looked up and glimpsed his face. He forced a hollow laugh. "Very clever, my man," he said heartily, clapping Joly on the shoulder.  
Enjolras sensed the tension of the moment. "History test tomorrow? Prepared?"  
Musichetta groaned. "As prepared as I'll ever be. What's eating old Javert?"  
Enjolras' lips twitched slightly before he remembered that he had sworn not to tell anyone what he and Combeferre had seen. "Maybe the heat," he said.  
"It was a rhetorical question," whispered Joly. Enjolras shrugged.  
"I'd better be off," said Bossuet uncomfortably. "Coming, Enjolras?"  
"Yeah, need to send an owl to my mother."  
They left and soon parted ways, leaving Joly and Musichetta to throw about witticisms under the rose-tree.  
On the other side of the courtyard, on the gazebo over the river, Feuilly and Gabrielle were meeting.  
"Cosette couldn't come!" exclaimed Gabrielle on seeing him. "I hope you don't mind. I made something for you. A present. It's a moving painting." She furrowed her brow. "I used magic so I think it's all right."  
She handed him a gold-bound book, bound with pink ribbons. He opened it and scrolled through the pages, each showing a brief scene. In one, a girl, looking very much like Gabrielle, sang to her love.  
"That's my song," she said, "I sang it. This is the Fountain of Fair Fortune. Beedle the Bard."  
"It's wonderful," said Feuilly, his hands trembling on the pages. "Here."  
"No," protested Gabrielle. "It's for you."  
Feuilly took it slowly. Gabrielle sighed. "I wish Muggle things weren't wrong. They are so _very _interesting. I want to know everything about … computers and telephones and moving paintings and aeroplanes. Excalators and elephanters. And you grew up with all of it?"  
Feuilly smiled softly to himself. "I think I know the next moving painting I'll tell you about," he said. "It's called the Little Mermaid. You're a bit like the mermaid."  
Gabrielle widened her eyes in shock. "You think I'm like a mermaid?" she said.  
"Yes," said Feuilly, touching a strand of her hair.  
"You think I am like a mermaid?" she repeated, stepping back from him, her cheeks flushing with anger. "I am not. I thought … I thought … give me my moving painting back, please. It is not for you."  
She took the book from him and tossed it into the river, then walked away without a word. Feuilly watched her leave, too stunned to say a word, then returned to West Tower to study for his History test.


End file.
